


unseeing

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Martin Blackwood, Set in Episodes 180-181 | Upton Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Some Humor, jon sleeps with his eyes open and I'm sure that has caused problems, minor descriptions of panic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29395029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "What was I like at Salesa's?""Oh, you'd just completely conk out....just be dead to the world. I actually got a bit worried, once or twice, but you always woke up fine."
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 1
Kudos: 79
Collections: Anonymous





	unseeing

Martin wakes to sunlight, and warmth, and his first thought is _I’ve never had a nightmare about an apocalypse before_. 

Of course, then he has to go and ruin it, and shift to glance at the window, and there’s a distinct lack of Scottish fields stretching out behind the glass. 

Ah. Yes. Of course not. 

He lies there for a moment more, savoring the warmth, at least. It had always been cold in the mornings at the safehouse, the fire usually crumbling into embers in the night that Jon had taken an endearingly intent interest in stoking every morning.

He supposes Salesa’s has some supernatural, probably cursed heating system — or really, an air conditioner, since the weather outside doesn’t look anything earlier than a late spring day. They hadn’t had the chance to explore the grounds, Jon being insistent about questions to Salesa’s increasing amusement. Martin has to admit, it’d been more than a little funny to watch Jon _not_ get answers and subside into sulking.

A shadow of a bird flits past the window, and Martin sighs, strangely happy. Happy as you can get during the apocalypse. 

Speaking of. 

Martin turns in the bed, reaching out in one motion. Jon’s hair is scattered across the pillow, one hand curled beneath his chin that Martin’s gaze travels up, chest warm. 

“Good morning bea—” 

Martin scrambles backwards, barely getting his feet beneath him as he tears himself free of the bed. He backs up until he hits the wall, breathing hard. 

“Oh, god,” he pants, staring. His blood is ice, his chest, lead. “Jon. Jon.” 

Jon hasn’t twitched. He wouldn’t have, would he? Because Jon—Jon— 

Martin’s hands fly to his mouth, as if that will stop the strangled noise working its way up from his lungs. 

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. Not after— _can_ this even happen? 

“Jon,” Martin says, voice high and pained, even to his own ears. “Jon, please, please. Jon, wake up.” 

But Jon—Jon and his open, glassy eyes and his oh-so-still-stillness—does not wake up. 

Something reaches into his chest and _squeezes_.

“Jon. Please, no. Oh. Oh god.” Martin had been sleeping in a bed with a body. The body of his— _Jon_ ’s body. He doesn’t even know how long. It’s even possible Jon had tried to wake him, that Jon had died somehow, died alone, and Martin had been _right there—_ “Please. Please, god no.” 

He stays that way for longer than feels real—pressing himself against the wall, Jon silent and still and staring without seeing. Jon won’t ever see again, won’t ever see Martin again. 

Because Jon’s dead. Gone. And now Martin’s alone. 

“Okay.” Martin’s voice is air. Jon would be reaching out, asking what was wrong, pulling him closer. He’s not, because he’s still dead. Kind, stubborn, frustrating, Jon. “I need to….I need…” 

To breathe. To find out how he died. Find Annabelle, and Salesa, and see if they had anything to do with this. Find a way to _kill_ them, if they did. Find a way to London, alone and without Jon. Find a way to stop the apocalypse, alone and without Jon. Find a way to, to be, without Jon's hand in his. 

To be alone. Again. 

He squeezes his eyes shut _focus Martin focus_ — 

He’s not sure what can kill an Archivist, in this new world. But coming through the door, to Salesa’s it had turned them more...human. Maybe the experience had killed him. It’s not...not something he wants to dwell on, not while Jon is small and still on the bed before him. 

Martin approaches slowly, almost dizzy. He’s not crying, he notes absently, he thinks he’s probably still too shocked for that. A lot of the people in domains they’ve passed weren’t crying, too caught up in the horror of it all. 

_Horror_. That’s the word for this. 

He cups one shaking hand to Jon’s cold cheek, the other reaching carefully for the eyelids. His hand pauses. Two, deep, dark, lovely eyes, utterly frozen on something far away.

Martin presses a single kiss to Jon’s freezing forehead, a dull roar filling his ears, his lungs. _Please_ , is all he can think. _Please_.

Jon doesn't stir. 

He drags in a breath, pressing his forehead to Jon’s. He has to say goodbye. Just say it, Martin. Say the words. Any words, anything that would express what this...what Jon…

He squeezes his eyes shut but the only word that comes to mind _alone alone alone alone—_

Martin freezes as something ghosts along his cheek, like a breath. 

Then, Jon _moves._

 _“Ah!”_ For the second time that morning, Martin throws himself back from the bed, clutching his chest this time. Jon _moves_ again, turning towards the noise and uncurling his hand. 

“M’tin?” Jon’s voice is low and blurred with sleep. He blinks, the movement slow and unconcerned. “S’thing wrong?” 

“I—you— _yes!”_ Martin shouts, and it’s enough to make Jon bolt up, rubbing his eyes but already tensing up. 

“I’m up. I’m up. I—where are—oh.” Jon’s gaze skitters around the room, his brow furrowed, before his eyes land on Martin. Martin doesn’t know what he looks like right now—he _feels_ like he just ran a marathon that ended in an ice bucket being dumped over his head—but Jon’s eyes go wide. “What’s wrong?” 

_“I thought you were dead!”_

“You, you—I— _what?”_ Jon looks fully awake now—probably something about someone shouting at you the second you’re conscious—and completely confused. “You—just now? I, I was just _sleeping,_ Martin.” 

“With your eyes open, and, and, and—” Martin’s chest is slowly deflating, faster with Jon’s _very much not dead_ gaze studying him in confusion. “Christ. Christ.” 

“You thought…” Jon squints, and there it is, the dreaded and adored way his mouth twitches up at a different angle on both sides. “You thought I was dead...because I was sleeping? Did you not shake me or, or something? Was I not breathing?” 

Martin rubs his face before throwing his hands down to his sides. 

“I—I didn't—I wasn't _exactly_ thinking straight, because I was more focused on having been _asleep_ in a _bed_ with the _corpse of the man I love!”_

“Oh, Martin,” Jon reaches out for him, expression going back to concern, and he acquiesces to being pulled closer, sinking down next to Jon. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t think—” 

“It’s—” Martin scrubs his face, the excess adrenaline still thrumming through his veins, but his head clearing now he knows he’s not staring at Jon’s corpse. “No, it’s not, not your fault, I just—just you were so still, and with your eyes open, and you didn’t, didn’t—” 

“I didn’t used to,” Jon finishes quietly. “I...don’t know why that’s changed. I’m sorry.” 

Martin leans his head onto Jon’s at that, wrapping an arm around him. 

“I—Christ. Don’t apologize, Jon. Not your fault, I just—I thought, you know. Scared me.” 

Jon huffs quietly. 

“I tend to have that effect, yes.” 

“Oh hush,” Martin says, tone purposefully light, but he tugs Jon closer. “Not like that. I thought I’d—I thought you were dead, Jon. That kind of scared.”

“I’m not.” Jon’s hand finds his. “I’m sorry I scared you.” 

“It’s really not your fault.” Martin huffs a strained laugh. “‘M sorry I woke you. Getting shouted at first thing isn’t exactly a pleasant way to start the day.” 

Jon wordlessly presses his freezing nose into Martin’s neck, and Martin pulls them both backwards onto the mattress so Jon can rest his head on Martin’s shoulder with only minimal spitting-out of loose hair.

They rest there for a while, Jon turning over Martin’s hand in his and examining the knuckles intently while Martin tries to get his breathing under control by focusing on Jon’s careful weight. 

“I can feel your heartbeat,” Jon says, after a minute, the words somehow devastating. He tilts his head up, catching Martin’s eye. “Can’t say I’ll feel good about giving you a coronary, if this becomes a regular occurrence.” 

“It’s...it caught me off guard,” Martin admits, winding the fingers of his free hand through Jon’s hair. “But even if it does, now I know. That's, um. That's a thing.” 

Jon hums, and seemingly gives up his examination in favor of pressing Martin’s hand to his cheek, his lips. They’re both still cold. Martin very purposefully fights back a shiver.

“We’re alive,” Jon says quietly, steadily. “I’m here. I love you. And we’re alive.” 

“Yeah.” Martin turns, Jon sliding off his shoulder so they’re side by side. He wraps an arm around Jon, pulling him closer. There are a million heavy thoughts hanging over him, the horrible sense that every kind moment, every soft or gentle word, is some kind of twisted, foreshadowing irony. That the end of their journey-that-is-the-journey, is going to throw into stark relief just how little they knew about what was coming for them. 

He sighs, looking into Jon’s eyes. Deep, dark, lovely, seeing. Seeing him. 

“Yeah, we are. And I love you, too.” 

The end of their story hasn’t reached them yet. It can wait, a bit longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> okay but actually imagine waking up to your unresponsive s/o lying there with open eyes when they've never slept with their eyes open before you can't tell me that wouldn't be distressing
> 
> hope you liked it! :) 
> 
> p.s.  
> I am bad at tagging so if you think I should add a cw for anything drop it in the comments.


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